


keeping your head above water

by ashen_key



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always A Guy, Always a girl, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Hearing Impaired Clint Barton, Het, M/M, Post-Mission, Prompt Fic, Rule 63, Slash, alternating pov, non-archive warning in notes, variants on a theme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/pseuds/ashen_key
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In four separate universes, Agent (Natasha | Nikolai) Romanoff crashes at Agent (Clint | Chris) Barton's apartment to regroup after an unsettling mission. </p><p>[Or: three variants of Rule 63, plus canon]</p>
            </blockquote>





	keeping your head above water

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [То, что держит тебя на плаву](https://archiveofourown.org/works/961516) by [Helga Winter (hwinter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwinter/pseuds/Helga%20Winter)



> WARNING: While nothing is said explicitly, this fic deals with the aftermath of a mission that involved a situation that was at _best_ double-sided dubcon. 
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/8247.html?thread=17800247#t17800247): _one universe where character A is genderswapped, one where character B is genderswapped, and another where both characters are genderswapped_. I changed the order and added a canon-gender section for the sake of completeness. 
> 
> Female!Clint is Chris, short for Christy: Male!Natasha is Nikolai and he refers to himself as Kolya, but Clint | Chris generally calls him Nick. 
> 
> Also inspired by [Tlvop](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TLvop/pseuds/TLvop)'s [Be Quiet With Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/467109). Title is from Mike McGee's poem [Everyday](http://forthmagazine.com/contributing-writers/2010/04/everyday-by-mike-mcgee/): 
> 
>  
> 
> _So yes_  
>  _I will gladly take on your ocean_  
>  _just to swim beneath you_  
>  _so I can kiss the bends of your knees_  
>  _in appreciation for the work they do_  
>  _keeping your head above water_

Kolya splashed water on his face and then straightened, scrubbing at his skin with a washcloth. The cold water hadn't helped, but then again, neither had the hot water from his shower. He still felt-

 _Nikolai Alianovitch Romanov, stop it_.

He obeyed himself and stopped, concentrating on nothing but breathing in and out slowly. From his lungs his attention moved outwards; muscles, skin, the bruise discolouring the left side of his torso and the ache in the first two knuckles of his right hand. He was thirty-two, just thirty-two, but everything his body went through had a cost. 

No, that was getting too metaphorical again. Back to the physical, the here and now. 

His lip was cut; it stung when he smiled, which was funny, because he wasn't smiling. Except now, a sharp grin just to prove he could. His nose was still straight, though, thank the guards' bad aim. He needed to shave. Should shave. 

Kolya just pulled on Clint's shirt, and walked out into the living room. 

Clint glanced up from his guitar when Kolya let himself fall onto the couch, but aside from a glance of concern, didn't say anything. It wasn't as if Kolya was being unpredictable: a faint smile of greeting instead of a hard kiss, the way he slid through the air around Clint, never actually touching him. The old jeans might be normal for when he crashed at Clint's post-mission, no matter the mission, but the stealing of the shirt...

Kolya was predictable, which was another way of saying he had certain post-mission rituals, and there was nothing wrong with a little post-mission ritual to help stitch one's self back up. 

“Thai or pizza, Nick?” Clint asked once the musical piece had finished. 

Another ritualistic formality. 

“Thai.”

It was always Thai. He'd thought, briefly, of saying Indian, but that was a variant, which meant when he was this unstable, he should be a sensible spy and avoid. Kolya slumped down further into the couch, his limbs inelegant in rebellion about being _sensible_. 

“Hey,” said Clint, reaching out to gently brush his fingers against Kolya's shoulder. The movement was familiar, and forecasted, and so all he did in reply was let his head tilt to the side to look at the other agent. 

“You order,” Kolya said, and there was smile ghosting about his mouth. It made his lip hurt, but Clint smiled back. 

“As you wish,” he said, and stood up to get his phone. 

They'd both seen _the Princess Bride_ ; Clint wasn't exactly being subtle. But Kolya appreciated it, just as he appreciated that he could be predictable, that Clint could pick it up, that after Thai would be _Die Hard_ , that he'd end up curled against Clint's side and feel safer. 

Slowly, Kolya let out a breath, shut his eyes, and concentrated on relaxing because in this room, with this man, he could. 

– – 

Nick was gone when Chris woke up, his side of her bed cool to touch when she rolled over and whatever noise he was making – if any – wasn't loud enough to hear without her hearing aids. She debated for a moment, and then put the aids on before finding her jeans. With Nick in one of those moods, it'd be smoother sailing if she could hear him properly. 

The man himself was in her kitchen when she walked out, leaning against the counter and nursing a cup of tea. His red hair was still sleep-tousled and his feet were bare, but instead of his normal shirtlessness for five-thirty in the morning, his torso was well covered by a faded t-shirt. 

He also still hadn't shaven, but given the nervous energy still roiling under his skin, he wasn't exactly in a kissing mood anyway. 

“Kolya,” she said, and his eyes met hers before he quirked up a brow. 

“Did I wake you?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“You're good.” She moved past him to get her coffee, and she was careful to leave him space. Not that she was a touchy-feely person, but she still missed the glancing, casual physical contact they normally shared. But this early in the morning, in this kind of mood, any breaches of personal space really should be initiated by him. “Join me for a run?” 

“Mmm,” he replied, communing with his tea for a moment. “Not a bad idea.” Then his eyes slide sideways to find her. “Long circuit or short?”

“Short.”

“Ah, being careful of yourself in your old age.”

“Shut it, Romanoff,” Chris retorted, and he grinned at her despite the cut on his bottom lip. The man looked – for him – like crap, but the expression was sharp and beautiful and familiar enough to hurt. In a good way, though, Chris thought. And then she thought, _brat;_ it was too early in the morning to be reminded that sometimes, he made her feel ancient. “I _was_ going to suggest hitting up the zoo before lunch if you wanted....”

He looked startled for a moment, and then something behind his expression eased. “I'd....like the zoo,” Nick said. “As long as there are otters on the tour.”

“Just for you, there will be otters.” 

Nick looked pleased at that, the expression more of a subtle cast over his features than anything as blatant as another smile. Then his eyes narrowed slightly as he canted his head. “And I am claiming your kitchen.”

“Well,” Chris said, amused, “Mi casa es su casa.”

“Gracious of you, given I'll be making dinner.”

“I am filled with cunning,” she said, turning her lashes down demurely for a moment. Nick snorted, shaking his head before taking another sip of tea. 

– – 

Going to San Diego Zoo had been an _excellent_ suggestion on Chris's part, Natasha decided as she leaned against the railing and watched the otters. She had pulled on one of her favourite sundresses (yellow, vibrant fuck-off yellow) and knee-high brown boots that had a perfect stompy heel. The boots also hid the stubble on her legs; shaving meant _primping_ in her mind, and if she liked the way Chris looked at her like she was someone desirable, she still felt too off-balance to want to be _sexy_. 

She wasn't thinking about that, she told herself, and brought her mind back the bridge's railing against her arms, the squeaking of the otters as they chased the monkeys around the exhibit, the solid warmth of Chris beside her. 

And then she was startled into giggles as one of the swamp monkeys hitched a quick ride on an otter's back. 

“Chris,” she said, pointing.

“What – _hah_ ,” Chris laughed, brushing her hair out of her face. The hair was a deliberate choice; normally she wore it in a practical ponytail. It was a sign of being relaxed, of _no danger here_. It meant, _hey, Nat, it's okay,_ and the way Chris laughed wasn't loud but unafraid and delighted. 

Natasha lightly bumped her shoulder into hers, still too hyper-aware of their surroundings too turn off the part of her mind that was calculating if the gesture was that of a friend's or a girlfriend's. Given that Chris was wearing a fitted shirt and her blonde hair loose, her image was softer, more feminine than normal: not as such a contrast to Natasha's curves and dress. Maybe a friend. 

_Fuck them_ , she thought, and turned the bump into a quick lean. “You hungry?”

“Not yet, but that probably won't last long. Any preferences?”

“Treehouse Café?” Natasha smiled, and the cut on her lip didn't ache as much as it had been. 

“Sure.” Then Chris's mouth turn wryly amused. “It's only a _baby_ hike.”

Natasha's smile widened, and her mouth still didn't hurt. “I'm the one wearing heels, and I'm not complaining.”

“Nat,” Chris said, earnest and solemn, “I've seen your shoe collection. No one who owns that many heels is allowed to complain about walking. Because you're mad.” 

Natasha fluttered her hand to her mouth, affecting shock even as she sized up the surrounding space. It was a weekday, a school-day, an overcast day not as crowded as it could be. “I'll race you.”

Chris arched her eyebrows slightly over her sunglasses, and behind the tinted plastic, Natasha would feel the narrowed eyes of consideration. “To where?”

“Until you catch me,” Natasha said, her smile winsome in ways that she knew Chris never believed, because Chris was a worldly ex-carnie who knew her. Still, there was a competitive streak there a sea-mile wide, and when Natasha backed up, turned, darted off, she didn't have to look back to know that Chris was right with her. 

– – 

_Mi casa es su casa_ Clint had told Natasha earlier, and he'd meant it. Not that she'd needed the telling, but it'd mostly been to see if she'd smile. Which she had, so he counted it a success. And there _was_ something to be said about the way she made herself at home, even if right now that something had more to do with badly wanting to join her in having a nap. But there was no room on the couch, which she'd sprawled over with all of the hogging ability of a small cat, and he had paperwork to do. Working at home did, unfortunately, mean _work_ , despite trips to the zoo. 

But given the way Nat had so carefully kept the distance between them when she walked in his front door last night, and then the way she'd laughed at zoo after he'd caught her hand, he'd take the sacrificed afternoon snooze to catch up on reports. 

From his spot on the dining table (with laptop and the obligatory cold cup of coffee), Clint had a prime view when suddenly a cushion from the couch went half-flying through the air and a sleep-rumpled redhead sat up.

“I only shut my eyes for a minute,” Natasha declared, hand going to her now-squashed hair. 

“At least one minute,” he agreed, and just gave her a smile when she looked at him flatly. She grumbled something inarticulately and got to her feet to walk into the kitchen. Kettle on, check the marinating chicken in the fridge (“It's an experiment,” she had said when making it, tossing in an overly generous hand of chilli; he'd elected for diplomacy and said nothing, just trusting in her culinary skills), and then she watched him back for a moment. 

Unsure of what was going on behind her face, Clint just kept quiet and didn't look away. 

After a moment, Nat let out a breath, and made her graceful way over to him. She leaned against his back with her arms curled around his shoulders and her cheek resting on his head. Clint slumped down a little his chair to rest against her, reaching up to gently clasp her forearm. 

“Hi,” Nat said finally, as if she'd just walked in.

“Hey yourself,” he said, and things were okay again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] keeping your head above water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/735186) by [ashen_key](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/pseuds/ashen_key), [sisi_rambles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisi_rambles/pseuds/sisi_rambles)




End file.
